


The Revenge of John Raines (A Johnald Fic)

by believeinsh2012



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blowjobs, Case Fic, Cats, Death, F/M, Feels, Graphic, Johnald, Johnald smut, M/M, Murder, Rape, Ronald Raines, Ronny Raines - Freeform, Sherlock's Skull - Freeform, Smut, Torture, Violence, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 11:29:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/believeinsh2012/pseuds/believeinsh2012
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ronny and John are practically inseparable. They would do anything to protect and defend each other. Anything. When Ronny is assaulted after a night out, John takes his revenge on the perpetrators. You really don't want to be on John's bad side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Revenge of John Raines (A Johnald Fic)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Johnald fic from the Sherlock fandom. Johnald is a slash pairing between John Watson and Ronald Raines (Ronny). Ronny used to be Sherlock’s skull (the one on his mantelpiece), but one day he came back to life as a fully functioning human being. He and John fell in love and now live together. 
> 
> For more information about the pairing see our website - http://www.johnald.co.uk
> 
> In this particular storyline, John and Ronny are now married which is why John has the surname of Raines. Sherlock is with Molly and they live at Baker Street together with two cats, one called Toby (Molly's cat) and the other called Cat (Sherlock's cat). Yup, he named his cat Cat. 
> 
> As stated in the warnings, this fic contains rape and graphic deaths.

"Want another drink, Skully?" Molly looked at him with that cheeky adorable twinkle in her eyes.

"Uh yeah, sure," he agreed with a relaxed smile. He wouldn't normally drink during the day, but John had been away for nearly a full twenty four hours now and Ronny was feeling almost physically sick from missing him so badly. He knew it was a problem, that he'd become far too attached and needy. Hell, John was away for a whole fucking week before and he'd just about managed to hold up OK. Well. Sort of. Not really. Things were different now though, after what had happened. It made him feel a bit pathetic sometimes though, and he worried that he'd push John away by being so overly clingy. The fact was though, he needed him more than ever. The thought of any kind of life without him was too horrible to consider.

Molly returned with two shot glasses containing an unnamed clear liquid, setting them down on the table in front of them.

"What are these?" 

"Vodka."

"Mollypops, you are a bad influence!" He gasped in mock horror. "Taking me out and getting me drunk at what..." He picked up his phone off the table and checked the time. "4 o'clock in the afternoon."

"It's nearly 5, silly," Molly giggled, looking at her watch as she sat down again.

"Yeah, and we've already been out for an hour."

"Aww, well this is my treat Skullywully," she smiled kindly, reaching over the table and giving his arm a gentle squeeze. "I know how sad you get when John's away."

"He's back tomorrow," Ronny answered enthusiastically. Damn, he was really fucking looking forward to that. 

"I would have had you round at ours," she continued. "But Sherlock probably would have tried to take your blood or something, you know what he's like." She gave a small nervous giggle. He kept asking her whether she'd managed to persuade Ronny to agree to it yet. She wasn't going to push him, but Sherlock was convinced he could unravel the mystery of Ronny's resurrection if he could only obtain sufficient blood samples.

"Yeah, uh, that's so not going to happen Molls," he gave a little shudder at the thought. He wasn't one of Curls' experiments. "How are things with you and the science nerd these days?"

"Great," Molly smiled, not minding that particular nickname. It was better than some of the others. "Really great."

Just then, her phone gave a loud angry beeping sound in her pocket. She took it out and opened up the message.

"Oh. It's Sherlock."

"Speak of the devil," Ronny smirked. "What does he want?"

"He says he knows where I am and he's coming to collect me."

"Typical." Ronny rolled his eyes. "The dude probably followed us. Or had one of his creepy homeless guys do it."

"Skully," she tutted. "Why would he do that?"

"I dunno, cause he's a crazy ass? Why is he texting you saying he's coming to get you?"

She shrugged and picked up the shot glass. "Are we going to have these or what?"

 

***

 

Ten minutes later Sherlock turned up, as predicted, an annoyed scowl on his face as he approached the table, completely blanking Ronny and talking directly to Molly.

"Let's go."

"Woah hang on a minute there Curly Cue," Ronny protested. "You can't just walk in and order her around. She's not your fucking slave."

"She's needed at the mortuary," came the curt reply.

"I...I am?" Molly frowned. "It's my day off."

"There's been a murder," he announced. "I'm working the case. Need you to do the autopsy."

"Can't someone else do it?" Ronny scoffed. He knew Sherlock was just using this as an excuse to get her away from him. He really didn't like him and Molly being such good friends, it obviously freaked him out like nobody's business.

"It's fine, Skully," she insisted with a small smile, standing up. Sherlock stood patiently waiting for her with a rather smug expression on his face, before swiftly turning and leading the way out. 

"I'll text you tomorrow," Molly called back over her shoulder as she followed the detective to the door of the bar.

Ronny sighed and picked up his empty shot glass, wondering whether he should stay for another quick one on his own or whether he should just get back to the flat and mope around for the rest of the evening. He dug his hand into the pocket of his jeans and brought out a load of change onto the table with a noisy clatter, beginning to count it out to see whether he'd even be able to afford another one. Just as he was doing that, a young woman walked past having just come from the bar. Her handbag knocked itself into Ronny's shoulder, at which point the arm holding her drink jolted upwards slightly, some of the liquid sloshing out over his shirt.

"Oh my God, I am so sorry!" She exclaimed, flushing with embarrassment as she placed her drink down on the table, dug a handkerchief out of her bag and began dabbing at Ronny's chest obsessively.

"It's fine, honestly," he chuckled, amused by how mortified she was. "It was really only a little."

A man in his early thirties with short black hair came to stand by her side.

"Causing trouble again, Amy?" He grinned, leaning down to kiss his slightly shorter girlfriend on the cheek.

"I spilt my drink on him," she mumbled, finally stopping with the dabbing.

"Honestly, it's no big deal," Ronny insisted. "I needed to change this shirt anyway."

"Let me at least buy you a drink," she offered, then turned to her boyfriend. 

"We can do that, can't we, Phil?"

"I don't see why not," Phil shrugged. "What you having, mate?"

There was a limit to the amount of protesting Ronny would do, and when it came to someone offering to buy him a drink, he really wasn't going to argue all that much.

"Just a beer would be great. Thanks guys, you seriously don't have to."

"Ohh, it's fine," she laughed, wandering to the bar and getting the drinks in.Phil pulled up the chair that had previously been occupied by Molly and sat down.

"I'm Phil, by the way," he introduced himself with a smile, holding out his hand.  
Ronny shook it and nodded, even though he'd already picked up on the man's name through the little interaction with his girlfriend.

"Ronny," he replied.

"Nice to meet you, Ronny."

"You too."

"Long way from home."

"Ah yeah, New York, originally," he chuckled. "Been here a while now though. Long story."

"They usually are."

"Yep."

Phil's pretty girlfriend returned with three beers and settled them down on the table, grabbing a spare chair and joining them with a shy smile.

"And this is Amy, my girlfriend," Phil introduced her with a small wave of his arm. "Ronny here's from New York."

"Oh wow, we were in New York last year, weren't we?" She gushed enthusiastically.

"You were?"

"Yeah, sort of a business trip," Phil explained. "Didn't get to see too much of the city but...it's a great place."

"Yeah, it really is," agreed Ronny. "I was there not long ago with my husband. We got married there." He grinned and showed them the ring. He didn't really care who knew it, and was prepared to take shit for being gay - if people chose to give him a hard time he'd give it right back. This couple seemed decent enough though, and happy to hear him chat about John for a while as they lazily consumed their drinks.

Ronny reckoned that vodka shot with Molly must have gone straight to his head, because pretty soon he was slurring his words and having a hard time focusing on his new companions, frequently thinking there were four of them instead of two. The conversation drifted, and Ronny was struggling to keep up with what was being said, the words melting away and echoing round his brain. It was as though he was listening inside a bubble. Everything felt distant and detached.

"Ronny...Ronny, are you alright?"

One of them was speaking to him. He must have had some kind of black out moment or something because he couldn't remember what they'd just been talking about or whether it was his turn to speak. Only that they were now giving him strange looks.

"Um...yeah, yeah," he stammered. "Just...Jeez, I'm really fucking drunk."

He frowned and passed a hand through his hair, trying to get his thoughts together. He needed to head off home and go to bed, sleep it off. Placing both palms flat on the table, he made a conscious effort to shakily get to his feet, his legs feeling like jelly and the chair giving a loud screech as he stood, pushing it away with the back of his knees.

"I should...I should really go," he mumbled half heartedly.

The room was spinning. Everything was blurred.

He took one step and almost fell over. Instantly, Phil was by his side with an arm around his shoulder, holding onto him.

"Woah, easy there, Ronny. Looks like you've had one too many."

"I think so," he agreed with a groan. Damn, this was gonna be one hell of a hangover.

"Where abouts d'you live?" Phil asked. "Got far to go?"

"Gloucester Street. Not far."

"Right. Let's get you a taxi, mate."

"Yeah," Amy agreed, standing up. "We'll make sure you get home OK, don't worry."

"Th-thanksh...guyshh..." Ronny slurred heavily as the couple gently led him towards the door.

 

***

 

Ronny didn't remember the journey back home.

He couldn't even say for certain whether they'd got a taxi or walked or got a bus or gone back in their car. He must have blacked out.  
The next thing he was aware of was being back at the flat, his consciousness returning with the soft sensation of the sofa against his left cheek as he plopped down onto it. 

The sound of voices flittered round his ears. Attempting to distinguish them, he rolled slowly onto his back and blinked up through bleary glazed eyes.

Two figures, standing over him. 

Of course, the couple from the bar. They'd helped him home. Nice of them.

"Thanks for getting me back OK..."

It took him a moment to realise the only words coming out of his mouth were incoherent mumbles and stretched out non-sensical vowel sounds. 

Then one of the figures leant down towards him.

A hand was placed on his shoulder, turning him over so he was on his tummy again, his cheek resting on the arm of the sofa.  
Ronny sighed pleasantly and closed his eyes. Sleep would be a good idea round about now. Peter and Alice or whatever they were called were perfectly capable of showing themselves out.

But sleep was the last thing on the agenda for Ronny Raines that evening.

Two hands now positioned themselves on the waistband of his jeans, roughly yanking them down without undoing the button or zip. They were dragged to his knees, then his ankles, then hauled off over the trainers that still adorned his size nine feet, his boxers joining them moments later in a heap on the floor.  
Ronny raised his head ever so slightly, a confused frown on his brow, unsure what had just happened or what was going on. He could feel a breeze on his back and was slightly colder than before. 

Stood opposite the sofa and apparently staring directly at him, he could make out the slightly smaller frame of a woman, and as he squinted and urged his brain to focus, he recognised it as the girl from the bar. Amy, was it? And she was holding something. In her hand. Some kind of...device. A phone? Was that a mobile phone?  
His dazed deductions were swiftly interrupted by pain. Sharp, excruciating pain that permeated even his alcohol induced dulled senses, bringing him crashing back to reality with a bang. It started from somewhere lower down his back and travelled quickly through his legs as they gave a slight jolt of reaction.

"What the hell?!" He yelled out, and was pretty damn certain he'd managed to actually speak this time, moving his heavy arms and attempting to push himself to some kind of sitting position.

That didn't work.

A hand came out again and shoved him back down.

And the pain didn't go away. It got worse. Some kind of weird sensation coming from his...from his ass.

That's where the pain was from.

His ass.

He was being fucking raped.

"Fuck!" Suddenly everything made sense. Even through the haze of his altered state, he understood now what had happened. The couple from the bar. They'd probably put some fucking drug in his drink or something. That was why he'd got so messed up so quickly, then they'd took him home. And the guy was...the guy was doing the deed...whilst the girl was...Ronny tried to focus on her again. It looked as though she was filming the damn thing on her phone or something.  
Bastards!

"Get the fuck...off me..." He spluttered, along with another unsuccessful attempt to get up or move in anyway. It was impossible. It was like he was paralysed. His body just wasn't responding to any of the commands he gave. Ronny was left with no choice but to lie there and take it. And now he knew what it was, his senses suddenly became acutely aware of every movement, every hard relentless thrust from the man's hips as he took command of Ronny's body against his will, every grunt of pleasure that swam round his ears, making him feel sick. 

He closed his eyes and tried desperately to block it out, willing it to be over. 

He'd be OK, he told himself, he just needed to think about something else. 

But all he could think of was John. And that just made it worse. This wasn't fair. He was John's and no one else's. No one else was allowed to do this to him.

What would he think when he found out? What would he say?

And now they were laughing. Or at least, the girl was. She was giggling. They were actually enjoying this. Enjoying abusing him. 

"Please..." He whimpered pathetically. "...stop."

"Awww, don't worry Ronny," the girl's voice echoed round his ears. She was by his side now, crouched on her knees by the sofa, stroking his hair. His hair damn it! Only John was allowed to stroke his hair. "It'll all be over soon," she cooed. "I know you're enjoying it really, you little manwhore."

He raised his head ever so slightly, his bleary eyes attempting to focus in on hers.

"Ffffuck...you," he managed to whisper, before collapsing back down again whilst the relentless pounding continued.

Ronny wasn't sure how long it had gone on for. It was all a hazy blur. I probably won't even remember this in the morning, he told himself. And that was possibly a good thing. But by the simple fact that he was aware enough to have that thought, he knew also that he was aware enough to remember.

Eventually it did end, of course, presumably when the guy had finished emptying himself into his ass. He heard a mangled cry of pleasure. Then the thrusts slowed down gradually, and finally to a complete stop.

He pulled out roughly, making Ronny give another yelp of pain. 

A hand slapped him across the ass. 

The pair of them laughing to themselves again.

He was turned over onto his back. He opened his eyes and looked up at them, though his vision was still cloudy and uncertain.

They dressed him. Taking one leg each, they pushed his boxers up over his shoes, then his jeans. He didn't make any effort to help them. Mostly because he still couldn't move, but also because he didn't want to. They had to manipulate him around like a rag doll, raising up his hips to finally yank up the jeans, do the button and zip up.

Then there were footsteps, receding into the distance.

The front door slamming.

They were gone.

And Ronny Raines was left alone on the sofa, his body bruised and shivering. The physical damage would heal. He couldn't be so certain of recovery from the emotional damage. 

He closed his eyes. The room was spinning. He rolled to one side and was promptly sick all over the floor, falling asleep barely seconds after.

 

***

 

Ronny woke with a groan, a hand instantly going to rub his temples, his eyes. The headache was intense. He felt groggy and just fucking awful. Slowly sitting up, he realised he was on the sofa and not actually in bed. Still fully clothed. 

"Shit..."

He ran his fingers through his hair and swung his legs around to the floor, narrowly missing the pile of sick.

"Fuck..."

Sitting on his ass was pretty uncomfortable for some reason. It was sore as hell. He shifted his weight a little. What had happened last night? Last thing he remembered he was with Molly. Then Curls had turned up, taken her off for some case or other. Then some chick had spilt a drink on him. Her boyfriend had come over. They'd started chatting. And then he'd got really fucking drunk. And then...

He rubbed his eyes again, trying to think.

He got a sudden hazy flashback. The girl from the bar crouched down beside him, touching his hair. Why would she be doing that?

Then something else. A hand on his back.

Pain.

Pain? What kind of pain? He shifted his weight again, wincing. A pain in his ass? 

Laughter.

The girl holding up her phone.

Wait, she'd called him a manwhore.

The colour drained even further from Ronny's pale face as snatches of memories came flooding back. The couple from the bar had drugged him and raped him. He  
felt a twisting, sickly feeling in his stomach. His hands were shaking. For the next ten minutes, he simply sat there, replaying his memories again and again like watching a bad quality porn video, filling in the bits he was unaware of, using his own imagination to make things even worse for himself, visualising the look on the guy's face as he came, his cock thrusting in and out of Ronny's tight unlubricated ass. 

Christ. He shuddered and shook his head. He felt fucking dirty. 

And then there was the guilt. Someone had done this to him other than John. That was basically cheating. Non-consensual cheating.

He struggled to his feet. His legs felt like jelly. His entire body weak and shaking. 

Anger. Disgust. 

How could he be so stupid? How could he let this happen? He should have just gone home when Molly left. Hell, he should never have gone out in the first place. He should have just stayed in bed. Well, that was where he was going right now. Bed. And he was staying there.

He limped through to the bedroom and collapsed onto the mattress, hiding his face in a pillow that was soon damp with silent tears.

 

***

 

John was really looking forward to getting home. He'd only been away for a day and a half, which wasn't as long as last time, but he'd still missed his big kid of a husband and couldn't wait to see him again. He was planning a quiet, relaxing day in. Maybe they could make some cookies together and he could put the cookie dough on Ronny's nose. He looked cute with cookie dough on his nose. Allowing himself a small smirk at the thought, he paid the taxi driver and jumped out, quickly unlocking the door to their flat and heading on inside.

"Ronny!" He called out cheerfully, dumping his keys and briefcase on the kitchen table. No answer. Wandering through to the living room, he caught sight of the vomit on the floor, giving a quiet sigh. He was probably in bed sleeping it off. Torn between cleaning up the mess and seeing Ronny, he opted for the latter. The thought that he could possibly be sick again in his sleep had crossed his mind, and he needed to make sure he was alright.

He approached the bedroom door and knocked on. He didn't particularly need to knock, seeing as it was his bedroom too. He was merely being polite, giving Ronny some space.

No answer.

He turned the handle and walked on in. Ronny was lying fully clothed on top of the bed, face hidden by the pillow. He approached and sat down on the edge of the mattress, cautiously putting a hand on his husband's back.

"Baby...?"

Ronny tensed at the contact, giving a small grunt in response. He'd heard John come home. He'd heard him call his name. He'd heard the knock on the door. He'd felt him sit down on the bed. He was aware of all these things. He just didn't have the energy or will to respond. He couldn't do anything. He was completely and utterly dejected, depressed, desperate, disgusted. He didn't even feel like he deserved to be touched by John right now. He was tainted, dirty.

"Ronny? You OK?" John tried again.

Silence. 

Ronny didn't know what to say. What could he say? No. He wasn't OK. He was very fucking far from OK. But he couldn't say that. He couldn't. So he didn't. He didn't say anything.

John frowned slightly. There was obviously something wrong. Ronny wasn't normally like this. Especially seeing as he'd only just come home. He'd usually be all over him. All cuddles and kisses and childish giggles and fun. But no. Not this time. Something was definitely up. But if Ronny wasn't willing to even speak, there was nothing he could do. He certainly wasn't going to push him. He removed the hand from his back and stood up.

"I'll be next door," he said quietly. "Cleaning up the sick."

He swiftly turned and walked out, gently closing the door behind him, then focused all his energies on getting out the cleaning materials from the kitchen.  
Ronny waited until he was certain John had left, then allowed a suppressed whine of anguish to escape his lips, squirming on the bed in frustration and hurt. He needed John right now. He needed him more than anything and he'd just walked out. Because he'd let him walk out. If he'd sat up and spoke to him, he'd still be right there with him on the bed. But he couldn't possibly tell John what had happened. He wasn't sure he'd be able to find the words, to form them, to hear them come out of his mouth. And if he wasn't planning to tell him, what was the other choice? Pretend that everything was normal and happy and fine? He really didn't think he could do that either. And now John was going to think he was pissed at him or something. Fuck knows what John was going to think. He had a hard time knowing what went on in his head as it was.

 

***

 

John got down on his knees at the side of the sofa. He sprayed the vomit with disinfectant then began scrubbing at it with a scourer and cloth, rinsing it out occasionally in a bucket of soapy water. It took about fifteen minutes to clean it properly, but he was patient and methodical, getting everything neatened out. He threw away the dirty water, and the cloth and scourer - couldn't use them again now anyway, too unhygienic. 

Then he washed his hands and went back into the living room to do a quick tidy up. The cushions on the sofa were dishevelled and messy. Ronny had probably slept there by the looks of things. He picked them up one by one and fluffed them out. 

Something dropped onto the floor. 

Still holding a cushion in his hand, he put it back and bent down to inspect the item. A brown wallet. Quite obviously a man's. Definitely not his. And not Ronny's.  
Pursing his lips thoughtfully, he opened it up and took a look. A man's driving licence was inside. Philip Nesley. 

John had never heard of him before. He certainly wasn't one of their friends, and he couldn't help wondering why a stranger's wallet was on their sofa. That, coupled with the fact that Ronny was acting so oddly, gave him a bad feeling he didn't particularly want to think about. But he knew he had to.

John sighed and rubbed his eyes. He would make tea, he decided. He plonked the wallet back down on the sofa and went to the kitchen.

 

***

 

Three hours went by. It had been three hours since John had returned and Ronny still hadn't moved. He couldn't help wondering what the hell John was doing, why he hadn't attempted to come and talk to him again. But he was hardly surprised. This was just typical of John. He must know something was up. He was just trying to deny it. Well, this couldn't go on. He missed him. He needed to see him. He had to. He had to get up. 

With a quiet groan, Ronny pushed himself up off the bed. He could quite easily have stayed there for days. He didn't want to do a damn thing except mope. But instead, he hobbled through to the living room to look for his husband, finding him sat calmly on the sofa tapping away on his laptop. The sight was quite infuriating, but he didn't say anything immediately, just stumbled over and collapsed down next to him with a sigh, rolling to one side slightly so he could find a comfortable position.

John heard Ronny come in but kept quiet, only looking up from his work when he felt the weight of the American on the sofa beside him.

"Need me to get you anything?"

"Like what?" Ronny scoffed, his voice louder than it needed to be. "You've said about two words to me since you got back."

"A slight exaggeration," John remarked. "I have said more. But either way, it's more words than you've said to me."

Ronny closed his mouth. He had a point. He'd flat out ignored him. He swallowed hard, knowing he'd have to tell him now. There was no other way around it. 

"Listen...Boo...I..."

"It's fine."

"What?"

"I don't want to know."

"John!"

Ronny jumped up off the sofa, ignoring the pain as he stalked to the kitchen in a sulk. How was he supposed to tell him if he didn't even want to listen? What did John actually /think/ was wrong with him, why he was acting so moody? 

He flung open the door of the fridge and took out the milk, glugging it straight from the carton. God, he was thirsty. He hadn't ate or drank all day. Turning round and leaning his back against the counter, he noticed a brown wallet resting on the kitchen table.Frowning, he picked it up and turned it over in his hands. He didn't recognise it. Wasn't his. Or John's.

"Who's is the wallet?" He called through.

John stopped typing. His shoulders seemed to tense slightly, although he didn't turn round. 

"Why don't you tell me," he answered in a whisper, the words almost catching in his throat. He gripped the edge of his laptop, his heart hammering despite his best efforts to control it.

With a baffled expression, Ronny shrugged and flipped open the wallet, revealing the driving licence in the first section. He took it out and examined the name and picture. 

His body went cold, a shiver shooting down his spine. He dropped the items back onto the table as though they might burn him and staggered away, his mind reeling. 

"John...please..." He called through to him desperately, his eyes quickly filling with tears of hurt and frustration. 

John heard the change in Ronny's voice, his pleading tone. He swiftly jumped up from the sofa and followed him into the kitchen, hovering in the doorway with his  
hands by his sides, unsure.

"What is it, Ronny?"

"I...I need to sit down," he mumbled, reaching out to him. He felt like he might collapse any minute if he didn't. What was that guy's wallet doing in his house? The bastard must have left it there last night. And what? John found it. And thought...

"Fuck John, it's not...it's not like that," he spluttered.

"Like what?" He took Ronny's hand, placing his other hand on the man's elbow as he began to lead him gently towards the sofa.

"Not there!" Ronny pulled backwards in a panic, suddenly not wanting to sit on it anymore. Not right now. He needed to be somewhere else to explain this. Away from the scene of the crime. 

"Alright, alright, in the bedroom," John murmured, continuing to hold Ronny as they walked through together. 

By this point, John was quite confused. He'd had an idea what was going on, an idea he didn't want to think about. But now he had no idea what was coming.In the private sanctuary of their room, they sat down on the bed together, side by side.

Ronny instantly collapsed forward and buried his face in John's chest, visibly shaking and sobbing. He couldn't hold it back anymore. He'd been holding it back all day. 

"Ronny? Ronny, what is it?" John's voice betrayed his now genuine concern and worry.

"I...I went out for a few drinks with Molly," Ronny began to explain, his words muffled by the comfort of his husband's woolly sweater he was managing to soak with tears. "When she left this...couple...came over and...they bought me a drink but...I think they spiked it or something because...because...they brought me home and the guy he...he..." His voice broke, unable to finish the sentence. He just couldn't get it out.

John pulled back and held him by the shoulders, looking at him intently, his eyes blazing.

"He did what, Ronny? What did he do?"

Ronny shook his head, staring down at his lap. "I'm...I'm sorry, John," he sniffed. "I couldn't stop him. I couldn't even move, I was just...lying there...on the sofa. And the girl she...I think...I think she filmed it on her phone."

John's heart was pumping rapidly in his chest, anger burning and twisting his stomach. He didn't need to hear the rest. He knew.

"Did they hurt you?"

Ronny gulped, his cheeks red with embarrassment and shame. "A little."

"Let me see."

"What? No!" He twisted away from him, but John had already stood up.

"I'm a doctor, Ronny," he said calmly. "It's fine."

"It's not that bad," he whined, cradling his stomach and reluctant to move. "It's only...only my...my..."

John bent over and placed a soft kiss on Ronny's forehead, lifting his chin slightly so he could look into his eyes.

"Don't you dare be embarrassed, Ronny Raines. This is not your fault and you have nothing to be ashamed about. Now. Let me take care of you. Let me take care of everything. Alright?"

There was a pause.

Then Ronny nodded. "Alright."

"Good. Stay right there. Need to get some cream."

"I'm not exactly gonna go anywhere," he huffed, flopping sideways onto the bed and wiping some of his tears with the back of his hand. John sounded so confident and in control. It made him feel better when he was like this. He trusted him. He knew John would look after him no matter what, that he wasn't angry, that he didn't blame him. At least that was something. And at least he'd told him now. It felt such a relief to share it, to get it off his chest and off his mind, the whole thing had exhausted him and in the short time he waited for John to return, he very nearly fell asleep.

"I'm going to need you to take your pants down," came the firm but gentle instruction near his ear. Ronny's eyes flickered open to find John perched on the edge of the bed, leaning over him.

"Um...right, yeah." He rolled over onto his back and undid his jeans, pushing them down along with his boxers and trying to remember John's words about not being embarrassed. Then he turned back to lie on his tummy, glad he could hide his face in the pillow as the inspection was carried out.

John shuffled further down the bed. He was in doctor mode now, and Ronny was a patient, not his husband. He had to keep his emotions out of it, something he'd learned very well how to do over the years. With two steady hands, he gently parted the cheeks of Ronny's arse, instantly spotting two small cuts around the entrance as well as the whole area looking generally red and sore. Using one hand to keep the injured section exposed, he reached for the cream and unscrewed the cap, squeezing some out onto one finger - all done expertly with his other free hand.

"I'm putting some antiseptic cream on. It might feel a little cold."

"OK," Ronny mumbled, then winced and sucked in the air through his teeth as he felt the cool cream touching the sores. 

After a few seconds it was all done and John could be heard in the bathroom washing his hands. Ronny gradually sat up and got dressed again, wishing he could have had a shower before John had put the cream on. Now he'd have to wait another half hour or so or it'd just be a complete waste of cream. He rubbed his puffy eyes and walked hesitantly through to the kitchen. 

"Do you want anything?" John asked as he was filling up the kettle. "Food? Drink?"

"Just a cuddle would be nice."

"I need you to do something for me, Ronny."

"Right. Um. Yeah. Sure."

John put the kettle down and picked up the brown wallet from the table, fishing out a business card from amongst the collection.

"There's a mobile number on here. I need you to text it and tell the guy he left his wallet."

"What?!" Ronny stared at him incredulously.

"If you text them and act all innocent, they'll think they've got away with it, that you can't remember anything."

"And then what?"

"Then he'll come round to collect his wallet."

John was looking at him as if this was the most obvious thing in the world, but Ronny still wasn't getting it.

"Why would we want him to come round? I never wanna see that guy again!"

"And I don't particularly want to see him either, Ronny but...we /can't/ let him get away with this."

"So what...you're gonna...have the police here waiting for him or something?"

"Something like that," John replied flatly. "Will you do it? I won't force you to but I'd like it if you did. It would make things easier."

"Um...yeah. Yeah, alright," Ronny sighed and moved towards him, lowering his head to rest it down on John's shoulder. John instinctively wrapped his arms around him and they hugged silently.

 

***

 

The doorbell rang. 

John had said he didn't have to be there when the guy came round to collect his wallet, and Ronny was quite glad of that. 

He'd got that much needed shower and was lying on the bed in a fresh change of clothes - his skull top and his favourite grey lounge pants. He felt comfy and clean and slightly happier in the knowledge that the couple wouldn't be able to do this to anyone else in the future. He imagined he'd probably have to give evidence at their trial, but he would face that when the time came. For now he was content to rest with his laptop on his tummy browsing the internet for amusing and idiotic content to post on his blog. Molly had messaged him a few times on Facebook. He hadn't responded, not wanting to tell her about what had happened. Not yet anyway. He knew she'd probably feel guilty as hell over it because she'd left him there and he didn't want that. It really wasn't her fault in the slightest.

He had no idea what John had organised with the police. He hadn't really spoken to him about it since they sent the text message over three hours ago. Ronny knew he still had contacts at Scotland Yard, people he was friendly with so he assumed he'd just rang one of them and arranged something. He heard John's extremely gracious greeting as he opened the door.

"Oh, hello. Do come in."

Then a female voice. Then John's voice again. Then her's. The guy hadn't come then. He'd sent his girlfriend. Was that her? 

Ronny was so damn curious. He could barely remember what she looked like. He wondered whether seeing her again would trigger some fresh memories, new pieces of evidence that would help send them down. The more he thought about it and listened to their distant words through the wall, the more he got the urge to go out there and see her face. Maybe it would help him get over this. Closure. That was the word people used for fucked up things like this, right? Besides which, he knew John wouldn't recognise her. There was no picture of her in the wallet. He would need Ronny to confirm it was her. Otherwise they wouldn't be able to arrest her and she'd just walk free. Suddenly he realised this was probably some kind of crafty move on behalf of the sicko rape team, just an extra little thing to cover their backs.

He pushed himself up off the bed and quickly walked through to the living room before she could get away with it any further. He'd just need to give the nod to John to show he recognised her.

She was stood in the living room looking rather awkward and out of place. John was in the kitchen taking a long time to get the wallet and for some reason pretending he had lost it. 

"Hey," Ronny said gruffly to the girl, ruffling up his hair. It was definitely her. He had a sudden flashback to the moment where she spilt her drink over him, obviously on purpose now he came to think of it. "Thanks for getting me home last night." He was playing along, making her think she'd got away with it.

"Oh, it's no problem," she smiled. He thought he saw a flash of relief shoot across her features for a brief second, then it was gone. 

"Um...what was your name again?"

"Amy."

"Oh yeah, that was it. Sorry, I was really drunk."

"Ronny baby," John was calling him from the kitchen. "Did you say it was in the top drawer?"

"Err..." He frowned, wondering what the delay was over. "Um, one second," he smiled at Amy and went through to the kitchen. John was hunched over the drawers  
and very clearly had the wallet in his hand. "What's going on?" Ronny whispered.

"Is it definitely her?"

"Yeah. It's her alright."

"OK. Good," John nodded. "I needed to be certain." Then, "Ahh, here it is!" He gave a cry of delight and padded back into the living room to hand her the wallet.

"Thanks," Amy grinned, taking it. "Phil'll be really pleased. He was stressing out over it this morning."

"I bet he was," John replied quietly, his eyes darting to Ronny before announcing casually, "Oh, that was the door bell I think, Ronny, will you go and check it for me baby?" 

Ronny frowned and shook his head. "I didn't hear the door."

"Neither did I," Amy mumbled. 

"It was definitely the doorbell Pookypoo," insisted John. "Go and check it for me."

"Alright," Ronny gave an uncertain nod and turned on his heel, walking through to the hallway. John was acting a little weird, but he didn't want to say anything in front of the crazy chick. He'd just ask if he was OK later, he decided. He was probably just freaking out a bit by having assistant rapist no.1 in their flat and he could hardly blame him. He wasn't exactly comfortable about the whole thing either. Maybe it was the police, he thought. That was probably part of the plan. Pretend someone was at the door then John keeps her there whilst he goes to answer it and let the whole of Scotland Yard in to arrest her ass. Sounded like a pretty damn good plan to him. Except, when he got to the door and opened it, there was no one there.

Ronny was baffled. With a curious frown, he closed the door, shaking his head in confusion before turning and walking back through to the living room. He stopped in the doorway, frozen to the spot. His mouth fell slightly ajar as he realised what he was seeing.

Amy, the girl was lying flat on her back on the sofa, legs sprawled at an angle. 

John was sat mounted on top of her, his thighs pinning her down. 

Ronny might have thought they were kissing, if he didn't know better. And if John's hands hadn't have been wrapped around her neck, a look of intense concentration on his face. He glanced up briefly as Ronny came in, then went back to his work, giving one final squeeze of his strong fingers. Satisfied, he slid his leg to the floor and jumped off her, wiping his hands on his jumper as he stood up. 

"I think we'll make cookies," he announced with a small smile, heading to the kitchen. "Want to help?"

Ronny just stared at the girl. She wasn't moving. Wasn't breathing. Small bruises were beginning to form on her neck where John's hands had been.

"Is...is she...is she..."

"Dead?" John called through cheerily. "Oh yes. Most definitely. Do you want chocolate chips in them?"

Ronny staggered into the kitchen in a daze. John was making cookies. He was actually making fucking cookies with the fucking bowl out and the flour and the sugar and all the other shit. 

"There wasn't anyone at the door," said Ronny blankly.

"No?"

"But then...you knew that anyway. You only sent me out so you could...so you could kill her."

"Yeah. I'm sorry about that, baby," John gave him a soft smile, pausing in between the mixing. "I thought you might try and stop me."

"Well, yeah, obviously! Jesus Christ, John! You just fucking killed someone! I thought you were gonna..."

"Going to what?"

"I dunno! Call the police! Like a normal person!"

John put the spoon down and walked over to Ronny, one hand reaching up and running through his hair, the other holding his hip. He stared up into his eyes.

"Listen, Ronny. I don't want you to worry about this," he whispered, standing on tip toes for a second to plant a kiss on Ronny's lips. "I told you they couldn't be allowed to get away with it. That I would take care of things. And I will."

"But - "

" - Think about this. If someone had done that to me...what would you do?"

Just the thought of it filled Ronny with a kind of cold fury, the intensity of which was quite frightening. "I would fucking kill them," he answered simply. "Nobody fucking touches my Boo."

"Exactly. And nobody touches my Pooky. Now, see, you understand?"

Ronny remained silent for a moment. As much as he was completely freaked out by John's actions, he had to admit he would have done the same if the situations were reversed. Definitely. "In fact," he said, speaking his thoughts aloud. "I probably would have done worse. Made them suffer."

"Oh, I won't be as kind to the male," John answered with a shrug of his shoulders. "She was only the accomplice, after all."

"You're...you're going to go after him?" The idea of his husband murdering people was still kind of hard to get his head around.

"You're not going to try and stop me are you?" John sighed wearily. "I thought we'd been through this."

"Mm...no...no, I guess I won't stop you," Ronny mumbled.

"Good. Then help me make these cookies."

 

***

 

John had two possible options for locating Philip Nesley. The address on his driving licence, and the address on his business card. It was nearly 6 o'clock by the time he left Gloucester Street. He imagined the guy had probably finished work by now and had left the office anyway, which was handy. He couldn't do what he needed to do at the office . He would go straight to his home address, but not immediately. He had to call by the Princess Grace first - the hospital where he worked - to pick up some supplies. He went in and out easily, without attracting too much attention. Nobody would notice anything was missing. He'd return the items afterwards, once he'd washed them free of blood.

"Just here is fine, thanks." He stopped the taxi three doors away from the actual address, paid the fare and jumped out. He pretended to be looking on his phone and waited until the cab had driven off and turned the corner. Then he slipped the phone back in his pocket and, clutching the medical bag under his arm, approached the front door of Phil Nesley's house. 

He stopped on the step and crouched down to remove a needle from the bag, along with a small bottle, drawing from it into the syringe, filling it up with a full dose. The road was quiet, thankfully, although he wasn't too bothered who saw him anyway. If anybody should care to ask, he was a doctor making a house call to a very sick patient. He could show them his card from the hospital if they so desired to see it.

John zipped up the bag again and nudged it to one side with his foot. He needed both hands free for this next part. One of them held the hypodermic ready to go. The other reached out and pressed the bell, keeping his finger on the buzzer for a good few seconds. He cleared his throat as he waited, looking forward to a lie in tomorrow with Ronny. He would make him breakfast in bed then suck him off perhaps. He needed a treat.

His peaceful thoughts were interrupted when the man he recognised from the grainy photograph on his driving licence and the poor quality video he had seen on the girl's phone came to the door. He still had Amy's phone in his possession, and although the video had been painful and sickening to watch, it had helped to further steel his resolve in doing what had to be done. The man didn't recognise John. Of course he didn't. There was no reason why he should. But he didn't even get chance to say hello, never mind ask who he was or what the purpose of his visit was.

John sprung towards him in a split second, bringing his left arm crashing down on the man's neck, the needle penetrating the flesh as he pressed the plunger with his thumb, depositing the clear liquid deep within his veins.

"What the...fuck..." He staggered backwards, the syringe still sticking out of his neck.

John bent to pick up his bag, followed him inside and closed the door behind him, pulling the lock over with a satisfying click. 

The man, Phil, attempted to swing a punch at him, but his arms were slow and sluggish. He missed wildly, but John returned the gesture with a sharp right hook to the chin, dropping him to the floor. He wiped his hand on his jeans and stepped over the man's now semi-conscious body, having a quick look round the house to check they were alone and find a suitable place for their activities. 

The kitchen table would do very nicely, he decided. There would be enough room for his patient as well as his tools and equipment.

John dragged the groaning Phil by his arms, through from the hallway and into the kitchen, clearing the table with a sweep of his hand and sending plates clattering to the floor, smashing beneath his feet. The broken pieces of pottery could well come in handy. He grabbed the man round his waist and hauled him up onto the table, unzipping his bag again to take out the ropes and handcuffs. He cuffed the feet together round the ankles, then bound the ropes to the legs of the table so he couldn't wiggle free. Next, the hands. Cuffed above his head and wrists bound to the table too for extra security. There was no way Phil Nesley was getting out of this one.

John slapped his face a couple of times to wake him up, preparing another injection as he waited for him to come to his senses. The first shot had been to disable him, knock him out. The second was quite the opposite. It was to keep him awake. The last thing he wanted was for him to fall unconscious or pass out during the procedure. Oh no. He wanted him to see and feel and be aware of everything that was happening to him, whilst being entirely unable to stop it. Exactly how Ronny had been when he brutally raped him.

"Ughh...wh-what...mm..." Phil groaned groggily and attempted to sit up, soon finding that to be an impossible task, instead opting to thrash and fight against the ropes. This was an unfortunate occupation and exactly as John had predicted. He would need to prepare two more injections as well as the one he now speedily pumped into the man's forearm.

"What the hell are you doing?! Get the fuck off me! Untie me you nutcase!"

John sighed quietly and ignored him, concentrating entirely on his work. He needed to silence his patient as quickly as possible so he didn't disturb the neighbours and draw attention to the operation. He hated being interrupted in the middle of surgery.

He picked up a pair of heavy duty scissors and, beginning at the hem of Phil's jeans, began to cut his way to the top, parting the fabric to get to the skin. 

"What the fuck...who the hell are you? What are you doing?!"

He cut away Phil's jeans, then his T-shirt. The now ruined clothes flopped back uselessly on the kitchen table, leaving him fully exposed except for his tight black boxers. They would need to come off eventually too, but he could leave them on for the time being.

"Let me go! Help! HEEEEEELP!" The man began to shout. This was what John had been concerned about, but luckily, the shot was ready and prepared. He picked up the syringe and plunged it efficiently into the large vein on his neck, which was currently throbbing angrily as he yelled. He screamed even more, attempting to wriggle away from the needle, without success. John pulled his jumper back to check the time on his watch, counting down the seconds until the concoction kicked in. It was the sort they gave at the dentist's to freeze your mouth. Except this was going to freeze his entire throat, rendering him unable to speak except in a strained, barely audible whisper. He didn't want to gag him completely. He was going to enjoy his half screams, hearing him beg for his life as it slowly ebbed away from him. Next, he administered the rapist's fourth injection of the evening - the one to paralyse his entire body, stop him from moving or wriggling as the operation was carried out. 

John turned his back on him then, and approached the sink, thoroughly washing his hands. He reached for his surgical gloves and slapped them on. Next came the apron. He didn't want to get any blood on his favourite jumper. Then the mask covering his nose and mouth. Finally, he was ready to operate. Phil opened his mouth to scream. John was satisfied to note that only an empty choking sound emerged, as though he were helplessly gasping for air. He looked genuinely scared now. And well, he should be. He was going to die quite horribly. 

The doctor unravelled his collection of surgical instruments, taking his time to consider them, carefully choosing his most favoured scalpel. He was in no hurry, and good surgeons should never rush. He was a good surgeon. An excellent one, in fact. And he was going to make an excellent job of Phil Nesley.  
He traced a line with his finger down the middle of the man's stomach, paused, then nodded. Yes, that's what he'd do. He lifted up the scalpel and, with a calm, steady hand, made a four inch incision from the centre of his chest to his naval.

Despite the obvious and sudden pain, John's patient remained completely still, thanks to the drugs. Still, but not sedated. He would be able to feel everything, and going by the twisted look of horror on his face, he certainly was.

Satisfied with the cut, John replaced the bloodied scalpel on the tray then delved his hand into the man's chest, feeling around his insides until he located the liver. He could survive without it, and John had done a liver transplant before. Not a big deal. Except this wasn't exactly a transplant. More like a removal.

He plopped the organ down on the kitchen table, making sure Phil got a good look as he did so, his face sweating and pale.

"Please..." He croaked. "Please...you don't have to do this..."

And now came the begging for his life. How predictable. John's eyes gave a little roll as he ignored him completely, not saying a single word, his hand diving into the man's chest again, expertly removing a kidney.

The look of utter agony on the rapist's face was extremely satisfying to the doctor. He felt he was doing a wonderful job.  
He didn't want to go too far though. He didn't want him to die just yet. He left the heart and the lungs well alone, stepping back away from the operating table for a moment and removing his gloves.

The poor guy probably thought they were finished, that it was all over. Oh no. Definitely not. 

Removing the gloves for the time being, John turned back to the sink and washed his hands again, then pulled out a pair of leather gloves from his pocket. He'd come pre-prepared with those. He didn't want to leave any fingerprints. Working with Sherlock and Scotland Yard for those few years had taught him a thing or two about crime scenes. 

Paying no attention to the profusely bleeding rapist, John picked up the kettle and filled it up with water, putting it on to boil. He searched through the cupboards, opening them one at a time until he located a mug and a jar of tea bags. He spent the next two minutes calmly making himself a nice cup of tea, and although he was disappointed to note the fridge was only stocked with semi-skimmed milk instead of his favourite 1% brand, it would have to do.

He sipped the drink slowly, turning back to face his patient and watching the blood from his open wound drip down onto the floor. He was still awake, wide eyes darting back and forth, features paralysed in fear and pain. John checked his watch. Ronny would be wondering where he was. Time to bring this thing to a close.  
Not particularly enjoying his tea, he approached the table and poured the remainder of the hot liquid into the man's chest cavity, no doubt scalding his internal organs in a most excruciating fashion before tossing the cup over his shoulder. It smashed into pieces on the floor along with the plates from earlier.  
He bent down and picked up one of the shards, stabbing the blunt end of the pottery into the man's neck using plain old brute force. 

And now for the piece de resistance, his final act of punishment for the low life piece of shit before him. 

John edged his fingers into the waistband of Phil's boxer shorts and yanked them down, exposing his flaccid cock and balls. His eyes flickered over them for a moment, imagining what he had done to Ronny, allowing it to further fuel his cold hatred and determination. He picked up his sharpest, largest scalpel and sliced off his manhood from the bottom of the ball sac upwards, his entire pathetic penis coming off in his right hand like an uncooked sausage. Then he quickly dived up to the top of the table again, forced the man's jaw apart with the fingers of his left hand and stuffed the severed penis down his throat till he gagged on his own blood and skin.

He was still alive, but barely. John knew he'd probably die soon from blood loss, so he had to act quickly. This was his final chance. He removed Amy's phone from his pocket and located the video of the rape.

Then he hit play and held it silently in front of Phil's dying eyes. He wanted him to know, in his final moments, that this was the reason. This was why he had been killed. For Ronny Raines. 

 

***

 

Sherlock Holmes lay flat on his back on the sofa, pinned down by two cats who had quite happily settled and gone to sleep on his chest. It was rather annoying, seeing as he was trying to read his new text book Decomposition in the 19th Century, but he had just about managed to find a decent position for the book in between the two felines although admittedly, changing pages was awkward. He could have just shooed them away of course, but that would have taken effort too, and he couldn't be bothered with effort right now.

He checked his watch. Molly was working the day shift at Bart's all that week, which meant she'd be home by 6. That was good news at least. He had been awfully bored the last few days. No interesting cases to occupy his time. No new experiments he had in the planning. Hopefully this new book might give him some fresh ideas. 

The shrill sound of his mobile phone cut through the silence of the flat. He imagined this would probably be Molly, saying she was on her way home, or even just ringing to see how he was. She did that a lot. She'd done it twice already today.

It was a pleasant surprise to see 'Lestrade' flashing up on his caller display, and his heart gave an excited lurch of adrenalin. A case.

"Sherlock Holmes?" He answered politely.

 

***

 

"Been here at least six hours, according to forensics. Possibly more," Lestrade was filling him in on further details as they ducked under the police tape and headed towards the already open front door. "He was only discovered two hours ago when he didn't turn up for work this morning. That was quite unusual for him, apparently. One of his pals from the office called round to see him in their lunch hour. He hadn't been answering his phone so...found him here like this."  
By that time they were in the kitchen, staring at the gruesome bloody sight in front of them.

"Excellent," Sherlock mumbled. Lestrade gave him a sideways glance. "Information," he added. "Excellent information, Inspector. Very...concise. Thank you."

"Right." The Inspector rolled his eyes, taking a step to one side to leave him to it. "And there's something else."

"Oh?" Sherlock turned.

"Yeah. His girlfriend's dead too."

"Good, where is she?"

"Washed up by the Thames early this morning. Strangled."

"Strangled?" Sherlock frowned and looked back at the mutilated body. "Interesting."

"We didn't realise the two were connected till we found pictures of the both of them up round the house." He picked one of the frames up and handed it to Sherlock. He glanced at it and nodded.

"So, what are we looking at here?" Lestrade asked. "Because...I'm confused."

"No surprises there," Sherlock quickly interrupted. Lestrade chose to ignore it and speak over him.

"The strangling says crime of passion but this...this is pre-meditated."

"Obviously."

"So...a pre-meditated crime of passion?"

"Precisely."

"Is that even a thing?"

"Of course it is," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You don't think he could kill again then?"

"No. Definitely not. This was a one off. These two people obviously did something to piss him off. The man more than the girlfriend."

"Maybe he was just being kinder 'cause she's a woman," Lestrade suggested.

"A sexist murderer? Interesting idea." Sherlock didn't entirely dismiss the notion, but as usual he would need to collect more data and facts before coming to a satisfying conclusion.

He pulled out a pair of gloves and snapped them on, stepping forward to get a closer look at the bloodied mess on the table.

"So, let's start with the obvious," he began, trying to hide the small smile on his face. He was enjoying this already. He did love a good murder. "These cuts are clean, neat and deep. Made with some kind of scalpel." It was moments like this he wished John was still around. He'd probably be able to tell him the exact type and a whole load of other pertinent details. "Two organs have been removed, without too much fuss. We're looking for someone with expert knowledge of human anatomy, a steady hand and nerves of steel. Definitely a doctor, most likely a surgeon." 

"Jesus. Right...OK..." Lestrade nodded, making a note of Sherlock's observations. "Guy must be a complete nutcase."

"Nope. Not at all. He knew exactly what he was doing and was fully in control at all times. This killing has been done calmly, efficiently, with precision."

"Alright. What about the uhh...genitalia?"

Sherlock leant over the man's mouth and squinted. "Stuffed down his throat. All of it. Novel."

"Yeah alright, but why? You think he was some kind of rapist, or something?"

"Seems likely," Sherlock nodded, peering into the open chest wound. Spotting something shiny deep inside, he plunged a hand in and fished around. Lestrade grimaced, feeling a little queasy. The gruesome ones always put him off his lunch ever so slightly.

"Looks like Anderson missed something," the detective grinned as he pulled out his discovery. "Again."

"Is that...?"

"A phone. Yes. Pass me a cloth."

Lestrade did as he was told and Sherlock wiped the device free of blood. "It's still switched on," he announced, slightly surprised and impressed by the sturdiness of the model. He made a mental note of it for future reference. Phones that could withstand large amounts of blood would always come in handy. He scanned through the phone book, recent calls list and text messages.

"Looks like it was his girlfriend's phone," he murmured thoughtfully. "There's messages her from her to him. You did say his name was Phil right?"

"Yep," Lestrade confirmed. "And she was Amy."

"Yes, definitely her phone," Sherlock nodded confidently, moving to the pictures and videos. Nothing there but empty folders. "Hm. Didn't keep much on here. Wouldn't mind seeing her laptop though. Either his or hers, makes no difference. Check their e-mails, web history, documents, pictures etc."

"I can get those for you," Lestrade replied. 

"Good. In the mean time, speak to their friends and colleagues, find out how many enemies they had."

"Yeah, of course. I do know what I'm doing you know, Sherlock."

"Could have fooled me, Inspector," the detective called cheerfully as he strode out of the kitchen towards the front door. "Could have fooled me."

 

***

 

Half an hour later an idiotic representative of Scotland Yard arrived at Baker Street with two laptops for Sherlock's perusal. He was quite excited about seeing the contents. This was when he started to make the connections, put the pieces of the puzzle into place.

He started with the girl's laptop. It wasn't an entirely random decision. The fact that there were no videos or photographs present on her mobile phone made him wonder whether she perhaps transferred them to her computer afterwards, preferring to do that rather than store them on her phone that might more easily get lost or stolen.

He wasn't entirely wrong.

There were twenty seven videos. All of them showing the brutal and vicious rapes of various victims, both male and female. Some were drugged and helpless. Others were tied down but fully conscious, attempting to fight back against their captors. The ordeal ended particularly badly for them, their throat slashed open with a kitchen knife, presumably too much of a risk to let them live seeing as they would remember and recognise their attackers. The drugged victims would be too out of it to recall what had happened to them.

They weren't just serial rapists. They were serial killers.

Sherlock watched each video in turn, skipping through most of them to the end. Friends or relatives of any of the victims were now suspects, although he couldn't help thinking the world wouldn't exactly miss this pair of low lifes.

Friends or relatives who were doctors. But in order for them to know and identify the perpetrators, the victim would have had to remember. Not one of the murders then. One of the drugged victims instead. Someone with a strong constitution. Possible previous history with drugs but definitely a good stomach for alcohol, and a strong will. They forced themselves to remember what some others would choose to forget.

He made mental notes of all his ideas and thoughts as he worked through the videos until finally he was at the last and most recent addition to the rape series. 

It took him a few seconds to recognise the victim, but when he did, everything else fell into place. He felt a chill run down his spine.

 

***

 

"Here you go, baby," Ronny handed him the fresh cup of tea and slipped back into bed beside him.

"Thank you, kitten," John took it with a smile and had a sip. Perfect, as always. "You really didn't have to. I'm the one who should be looking after you."

"It's fine. You did kill two people last night so...I figured you probably needed some looking after too."

John said nothing, taking another small sip before placing the cup down on the bedside table and turning to snuggle up to Ronny again. 

Ronny looked into his eyes and reached a hand into that perfect soft hair of his. John hadn't spoke a word about the murders, about what he'd done to the rapist dude. Ronny didn't have a clue. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. It was done now, it was over. He was fucking worried about John getting caught though, but there was nothing he could do about that now either. Just protect him and love him as best he could.

"Are you alright?" John asked him gently.

They had spent the whole day in bed. John had insisted. Ronny needed time to recover, to rest. 

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," he mumbled, looking away.

"You're not fine," John frowned, tenderly kissing the top of his head. "But that's OK. I don't expect you to be fine immediately. But I'm here for you, alright?"

"Yeah, I know. Thanks, Boo Bear. I love you so much."

"I love you too, baby."

Ronny kissed him then. Properly. For the first time since the incident. John had just intended it to be a small kiss, a peck. He wasn't going to rush Ronny into any kind of sexual activity after what had happened. The night before he'd been considering giving him a blow job but when they woke up that morning he decided against the idea. It was too soon. 

Although now, apparently not. As he tried to pull back from the short embrace, he found Ronny's massive hand had wrapped around his head and was keeping him there, keeping their lips pressed sensuously together, their kiss turning from tender and gentle to pent up passion and hungry desire in an instant. Ronny was the first to break off, a worried expression on his face.

"You know I'd never cheat on you, right? At least...not intentionally."

"Of course," John sighed. "Same goes for me, obviously."

"OK. Yeah. I mean, obviously. Sorry."

"Don't worry. It might take time for you to get any kind of sexual desire back."

"I don't think so," Ronny smirked, raising the sheets and looking down at himself.

"You haven't?" John gasped.

"I have. A fucking massive one."

"You little shit..." He delved his hand under the cover and wrapped his fingers round Ronny's firm erection, closing his eyes with a quiet moan of satisfaction. It felt good to hold it.

Then the doorbell rang.

"Ha. That's typical," John chuckled, releasing his grasp and whipping back the duvet. He clambered into his bear onesie and zipped it up halfway, just enough to cover himself. "We never get visitors."

"John, wait." Ronny grabbed his hand before he could go an answer it, a worried look on his face. "What if it's the police?"

"Relax, Ronny," John assured him. "They're not /that/ good."

He grinned and padded out the bedroom and through to the hallway, flinging open the door to find the black curly mop of his skinny former flatmate lingering on  
the step with his 'cool' large collared coat on.

"Sherlock."

"John."

An awkward silence. Despite recently making up after a period of not talking, things were still difficult between them most of the time. 

"May I come in?" The detective asked politely.

"What for?"

"Quick chat."

"You don't do quick chats," John answered suspiciously.

Sherlock smirked and raised an eyebrow. He couldn't exactly argue with that one.

"Alright, but we can't do this on the doorstep."

"Can't we?"

"No." Sherlock replied firmly, looking intensely into his friend's eyes. 

And in an instant John knew that he knew. And Sherlock knew that John knew. They still had that unusual connection, that ability to read each other's minds. 

There was a moment of silence. They just stared at each other. Then John stepped back, allowing Sherlock access.

"You'd better come in."

"Thank you."

The door was closed behind them and Sherlock shown through to the living room. He remembered the sofa very clearly from the rape video, his eyebrows twitching into a small frown.

"Where's Ron?"

"In bed. Why?"

There was no point beating about the bush. Might as well get straight down to business.

"I saw the video."

"Oh." John stared at the floor. He'd been wondering how Sherlock had realised it was him so quickly, especially after having been so careful. "I deleted the video."  
"From her phone?"

He nodded.

"How many other videos were on there?"

"None," John answered blankly, not understanding why that was relevant.

"Pictures?"

"Nothing. There weren't any."

"After each rape she uploaded the videos to her laptop and then deleted the originals off the phone. She'd got round to uploading it but hadn't deleted it yet."

"That was where you saw it? On her laptop?"

Sherlock nodded.

"And there were more? More rapes?"

"Twenty seven in total, seven of which were also murders."

"Murders?!" John's eyes widened in surprise. He really hadn't been expecting that.

"Whenever the victims weren't drugged or incapacitated, they were murdered afterwards. Throats slit."

"Jesus Christ. That's...awful."

"Indeed," Sherlock murmured his agreement, eliciting another awkward pause. "Nice outfit, by the way." The detective nodded towards John's onesie.

"Oh...yeah," he grinned. "Ronny has a giraffe one. He looks really cute in it."

"Right." Sherlock shifted his weight from foot to foot and put his hands in his pockets.

Just then, the American in question emerged from the bedroom. 

"Hey Curls. Thought I heard your voice." He moved to stand by John's side and linked his arm. "What's going on?"

"Sherlock knows about the murders, Ronny," John whispered seriously.

"I'm investigating them, in fact," the detective added, as if the first statement wasn't enough.

Ronny paled and gripped his husband's arm tightly, terrified that he was going to get taken away. "What's going to happen to him?" He asked quietly, his voice strained.

"He's going to have to arrest me, Pooky. Aren't you?" He looked up into Sherlock's weird multi-coloured eyes.

Sherlock cleared his throat, his tongue coming out to quickly dart over his bottom lip. 

"I'm not the police, John, and I don't work for them, I work for myself."

"What...what are you saying?" John asked cautiously.

"I am my own judge and jury."

"What are you saying?" He repeated again, seeing as Sherlock seemed so intent on speaking in riddles instead of answering the question directly.

"I never thought I could love anyone, John. Not properly. Sometimes I'm still not convinced I can, but...I know that if anything like this ever happened to Molly, or indeed to you, that I might well act in the same way you did."

The air was thick with tension between the two of them, and it was making Ronny a little uncomfortable. He felt the need to break it with some fooling around.

"What about me, Curls? You saying you wouldn't do the same for me?"

"You don't need me to do that, Ronny, you've got John for that. Haven't you?" But he was looking directly at the doctor when he asked the question, not at Ronny.

"Yes," John nodded. "Yes, he has me. And...I'm...hoping...he always will?"

"Oh yes," Sherlock confirmed with a small smile. "He always will." He tugged up his collar and strode towards the front door.

"Is that it?" Ronny demanded, chasing after him and almost tripping over his feet. "What happens now? What about the murders? Won't the cops expect you to solve it?"

"I'll take care of everything," Sherlock promised. "I know a homeless guy who's been desperate to get a life sentence."

"He actually wants to go to prison?"

"Bed, food, warmth, easy access to illegal drugs. Who wouldn't?"

Ronny smirked slightly, despite himself. Curls could be funny sometimes. And he was doing them a massive favour.

"Hey um...thanks...Curly Cue."

"It's...fine," he replied awkwardly, hovering in the doorway. Then a whoosh of his coat and he was gone, hailing a taxi that magically appeared out of nowhere.

 

***

 

It didn't take John and Ronny long to return to the bedroom. About thirty seconds. They dropped onto the bed in a flurry of kisses, arms and legs akimbo, the relief and happiness that all this was over finally hitting home for both of them. 

"Are you OK with this?" John asked breathlessly, pausing as he straddled Ronny's waist. "I don't want you to feel uncomfortable."

"Your knee's kind of trapping a nerve on my leg but apart from that I'm completely comfortable, baby boy."

"Oh...er...hang on..." John shifted the offending knee and they both giggled, then Ronny wrapped his arms around John's waist and dragged him down for a hungry kiss, exploring his sweet tasting mouth with the entire breadth of his tongue. For a moment the only sounds in the room were their sloppy snogging and ragged uneven breathing. Then John pulled back with a dopey grin on his face, the grin Ronny adored so much.

"I was going to do something before, but I didn't want to push you."

"Oh?" Ronny raised an eyebrow. "What was it?"

"I was going to suck you off and eat all your come."

"Fucking hell, John!" 

"What?" He pulled a face, suddenly worried he'd gone too far. "You don't want that?"

"No, no, I mean yes, of course I do, I mean, it's not that," Ronny paused and took a breath, realising he'd got generally carried away in the hotness of the situation and was failing to explain himself properly. "It's just...you've no idea how fucking sexy it is hearing you talk dirty from that posh Brit mouth of yours."

"Meh, hardly posh," John shrugged, fending off any kind of compliments.

"Posh enough for me baby, and if you want to fucking blow me I'm hardly gonna stop you, am I now? I mean...as long as you're sure."

"Of course I'm sure." He smiled and leaned forward to kiss Ronny's lips gently, then moved southwards, leaving a trail of little wet kisses from his neck down to his tummy.

"Mmm..." Ronny sighed happily and closed his eyes, quickly recovering his lost erection from earlier as John's lips sent shivers to every nerve ending in his body.

"Ah...standing to attention, are we?" John's fingers edged inside the waistband of Ronny's grey sweatpants, seeing the outline of his erection underneath.

"Yes, Captain."

"I think we should take these down." He tugged them casually.

"I think so too," Ronny whispered, raising his hips off the bed. John gave a sharp tug and they were off, getting dragged down to Ronny's knees then kicked off his feet, dropping onto the floor in a heap as he was rid of the restriction of clothes. "All yours..."

"Yes. Yes, you are. And...Ronny..." He hesitated and looked up from his position between the American's long muscular legs.

"Yup?"

"I want you to know erm...how much I love you." John's cheeks blushed ever so slightly.

"Well...I do know that, John. Of course I know that."

"Yes but...I want you to think about it. In the next sixty seconds."

And before Ronny could answer, he bobbed his head down and took him into his mouth, deep throating him for a couple of seconds before coming up for air then continuing to suck normally without a pause.

"Christ!" Ronny yelled in surprise and delight, gripping John's short hair between his fingers as his hips automatically bucked upwards, searching for more of John's beautiful warm wetness. "Fuck...I love you too, baby."

John smiled with his mouthful, continuing to pleasure his husband and taking his own pleasure from the very act itself. He didn't actually need an orgasm to feel satisfied. He just needed to know that Ronny was satisfied, and possibly to taste him at the back of his throat. That was always nice. He liked the way he tasted.  
Ronny was panting and gasping, his stomach tingling with sensations as the pace rapidly built up. He didn't know how much longer he could last with John's relentless sucking, keeping his lips tight and firm around his cock to maximise on the pleasure. 

He curled and uncurled his toes, then lifted his legs up to hook round John's back, digging in with his knees and getting him to go deeper. The result of that action sent him virtually spiralling out of control. He managed to raise his head slightly off the pillow and was just about able to see his cock practically disappearing completely into John's mouth. Then suddenly it was upon him, and without warning.

He squealed like a fucking girl and grabbed John's shoulder, his hips thrusting with wild abandon into his mouth as he released himself completely. John gripped Ronny's thighs that were locked around his neck and stayed completely still, allowing his perfect lover to take control of the situation again, and fuck his throat for those few last seconds. He closed his eyes and concentrated on holding off his gag reflex as he took him deep down repeatedly back and forth. He felt his mouth quickly filling with the bitter sweet tasting ejaculate. He held it there for as long as he could, wanting to savour the unique flavourings before he swallowed it down.  
When Ronny finally stopped thrashing and moaning, the two of them just lay there for a minute or so, John still with his head buried between Ronny's legs. Eventually he pulled back, releasing the now spent cock from his mouth and licking his lips, smacking them loudly a couple of times and smirking cheekily.

"Come here, you," Ronny grinned, reaching down to grab him and haul him back up to the pillows and in for a cuddle. 

John sighed happily and nestled into Ronny's chest. They didn't speak for the next half an hour. They didn't need to. They were both thinking the same thing.  
That they would always have each other, would always protect each other, would always love each other, and that that love would see them through every possible obstacle or hardship that life threw their way. 

Alone, they were two emotionally damaged, insecure people. Together, John and Ronny were invincible.


End file.
